Hope in Front of Me

by Danny Gokey

  Sometimes you need to give your frustrations over to God and accept the things you cannot change. I was really discouraged about what was ahead. The things we believed and hoped for weren’t coming to pass, even financially. I had quit my trucking job because I was so tired of working two jobs and because I wanted to be there for Sophia during this time. I started questioning if this was going to be the rest of my life. I felt like there’s got to be something better than this. Nothing was lining up with what I thought was going to happen. I needed a fresh perspective and a refilling of strength and hope to keep moving forward because dark times are inevitable.

  There is simplicity in letting go. You are able to put whatever it is behind you, breathe a sigh of relief, regain your strength, and then walk toward what’s ahead.

  Neither of us could have anticipated that 2008 would be our last year together and that this was the last Christmas and New Year’s Sophia and I would share.

  Ten Days

  The same doctor who wanted to push out the pacemaker procedure a few years encouraged us to begin seriously considering that as the next step in Sophia’s treatment plan. We were ready to do anything at that point. We just wanted this nightmare to end.

  Nothing is impossible for those who believe and have faith. We were not happy with the natural world, but we knew there was always a greater plan being worked out. The surgery was originally scheduled in March 2008 but had to be postponed for a variety of reasons to June that same year. When the June date came, we had to reschedule again due to an emergency situation that involved our doctor. This time it was delayed just ten days.

  During this time, we prayed together, and other people prayed for us. We wanted nothing more than a supernatural force to intervene and free Sophia from the need to even have surgery. When you are dealing with realities bigger than you are, it isn’t unreasonable to reach for something bigger than yourself. This is the place where hope resides.

  Those ten days passed very slowly. The only thing we had left was to pray and dream about a better future. The most beautiful thing anyone can do is dream. Most people stop dreaming because they have too many disappointments, experience too much failure, and allow too much doubt to cloud their sense of hope.

  In an effort to take her mind off of things temporarily, I took Sophia on a date. We hadn’t been able to do that very much. I wanted to make her smile, make her laugh, and remind her that I would be there for her every step of the way. We talked about what we would say to the doctor when this was all over and done with. We dreamed about what we could do once we felt confident the surprise episodes would stop and our life together could get back to some sense of normal.

  I tried to encourage Sophia as much as possible during those ten days. I wanted to take her mind off of the surgery, but the moments when we forgot about what we were about to face came quickly and left quickly. We both understood the severity of what was about to happen.

  Choose to Believe

  Even though our situation was challenging and sometimes desperate, we chose to live in hope. Focusing on hope allowed our burdens to be lighter. It helped us keep a proper perspective. We refused to be under the situation; we wanted to live above it. We needed to fight from the standpoint that we were going to win rather than be defeated.

  We chose to believe the best in the situation. We looked for affirmation that this routine procedure was going to solve Sophia’s recurring heart issues that had interrupted our marriage for far too long. We continued to pray and asked others to join us.

  Our efforts to remain positive and depend on each other brought us a great deal of joy. We can sometimes be so jaded that we scoff at the idea of believing in anything but ourselves, but belief is much more likely to bring happiness than sorrow. I would much rather be guilty of looking at life through the window of possibility than standing at the crowded doorway of hopelessness.

  I didn’t want to be in this situation. Sophia didn’t want to be in this situation. Nevertheless, that is where we found ourselves. That is what we faced. We could’ve chosen to allow it to eat away at the precious time we had with each other. We could’ve allowed it to distract us from the gift of time and presence we could give each other. Or we could choose to keep what was most valuable — hope — always before us and make the best of our time together. We chose the latter.

  Chapter 4

  A Long Good-bye

  Hope will carry you when everything falls apart.

  I remember flipping through the TV channels a month before Sophia’s surgery and landing on the story of Jeremy Camp, a Christian-music artist who had lost his wife to cancer just a few months after they were married. It changed him and his ministry forever. I wondered what I would do if something happened to Sophia. At that moment, I hoped with every ounce of faith in my body that nothing would ever happen to her. I didn’t know if I could handle it. I prayed (almost pleaded with God) that Jeremy’s story would not become my story.

  Praying for a Miracle

  I had to lead worship the night before Sophia’s procedure. I wanted her to come with me so we could at least spend some time together while we drove back and forth from Milwaukee to Beloit. I also wanted us to sing worship songs together. I needed to make sure I didn’t lose a grip on the faith that was keeping us together in the midst of the chaos. I also hoped that someone there would pull us aside and pray over us. Sophia came with me, and we got to sing together. But no one offered to pray for us, and that hit me hard. I wondered if God was paying attention at all or if He even cared.

  As soon as we got home, we collapsed on the couch from the sheer mental weight of the situation. I grabbed Sophia’s hand and we prayed one more time that a miracle would somehow still happen and we wouldn’t have to go to the hospital. We were both worn out emotionally and physically, so we decided to go to sleep.

  I woke up the next morning to Sophia’s cries. She was now verbalizing what I was thinking but too scared to ask: Why — in the midst of our faithfulness — had she not been healed? How much more would we have to endure before the tide changed direction and good things started to happen? When would the good news come?

  I was so distraught. I had to leave the room and go to the living room because my heart was just broken for her. If I could have done anything in that moment to comfort Sophia, I would have, but I couldn’t. I hated feeling completely helpless.

  A Quick Kiss

  On the way to the hospital, Sophia called her family to tell them she loved them. Those were difficult calls to make. We were both scared, but I tried my best not to show it. I wanted to be strong for Sophia. I didn’t want to give her any reason to doubt or be fearful in a weak moment.

  I remember what she looked like in her hospital bed before the operation. She looked so scared and helpless. We laughed. We cried. We prayed.

  I didn’t want to leave when they came to take Sophia back for surgery. I told her I would see her later, and I gave her a quick kiss in an attempt to pretend all of this was normal. In reality, I was a mess. I had told myself to play it down and act like all was well, because then it would be, right? If I acted scared, it might trigger all the worst-case scenarios. That quick kiss was my way of acting like everything was fine.

  But it wasn’t fine. As soon as I left the room, something didn’t seem right. I felt like I should go back in the room and say good-bye and kiss her passionately with all the love that was in me. But I didn’t. I went to work instead.

  I know it may sound heartless that I went to work during Sophia’s surgery, but I had just taken a job at The Cheesecake Factory as a server a few weeks before, and we needed the money. Life doesn’t just stop when these things happen. But I couldn’t think straight. It was evident on my face. I couldn’t get my mind off Sophia in surgery. I suddenly realized I couldn’t work, so I left. And I never went back. I couldn’t because everything changed after that day.

  A Startling Turn

  The surgery was supposed to take four to six hours. It took twelv
e. That was a long time to wait and agonize over how the surgery was going. When it was finally done, I got to see Sophia. I tried to speak words of encouragement to her. I wanted her to be strong. I knew she could hear me even if she couldn’t respond or stay fully alert.

  The hospital had rooms for family members to sleep in. I was exhausted from all the waiting and anticipation, so I took a bed and crashed. I was awakened by the ringing phone. A nurse was calling, letting me know that Sophia had woken up and was asking for me. I ran as quickly as I could to her room, but she had fallen back asleep. Something wasn’t right; I just wasn’t sure what it was yet. I went back to my room.

  Then things turned upside down after that. Sophia was rushed for an emergency follow-up procedure. Later, the doctor explained that her heart had failed just after I visited and they’d had to resuscitate her and take her to surgery immediately to put her on an artificial heart. The only remaining course of action was an immediate heart transplant. What was supposed to be a routine procedure quickly escalated to a life-and-death scenario. I made some phone calls. Several churches had us on their 24-hour prayer lists. If medicine wasn’t going to cure her, I was sure prayer could. The group of family and friends in the waiting room kept growing. There were probably a hundred or more people there, showing their support for Sophia. Their love and devotion was amazing.

  When we weren’t talking, we were praying. And when we weren’t praying, we were trying to encourage one another. It was a beautiful picture of how community should work.

  Other people in the waiting room heard us talking and praying together. Timid parents who didn’t have much support for their own situation approached us to explain what they were going through and asked us to pray for their children. And we did. We kept hearing good news coming from those others we were praying for. That just encouraged us to continue to pray for Sophia.

  Parking Lot Prayers

  Eventually, there were so many of us praying in the waiting room that I suggested we move to the top of the hospital parking structure, where we would have more room. The sun was going down and darkness was settling in. People came every night to pray the next several days, but there were more people there that night than any other night. We were praying and singing worship songs together. We still hoped and believed for a miracle. After we finished, we looked up and someone noticed what unmistakably looked like a pink heart in the sky. Many of us broke down in tears. I was looking for anything to grab onto and bring hope at that point. I wanted to believe that heart-shaped cloud was a sign that Sophia would be healed.

  I know now that was not the plan. Sometimes we don’t understand why things don’t work the way we want them to, but I’ll never forget that cloud in the sky that night. We don’t always get what we want or what we’d expect, but there are still signs of hope all around us. Many times, we are left with no explanation for unforeseen tragedy. It doesn’t make sense, and we don’t know why. That heart-shaped cloud has since taken on a new meaning and has a lot to do with why my organization is called Sophia’s Heart.

  Two Long Weeks

  Sophia made it through the emergency surgery, but she never woke up. We continued to pray. I wasn’t able to stay at the hospital around the clock. It was too much for me emotionally, and I needed rest and a break from the trauma. But mostly, I was right by her side.

  Sometimes I would get weary of praying. I just didn’t have anything left in me, so I did the only thing I had left in me to do.

  I started singing.

  As I sang, the nurse noticed tears from Sophia’s eyes. She tried to encourage me by telling me Sophia could hear me and knew my voice even if she couldn’t verbally respond. Her tears meant so much, for those were our only communication since I gave her that quick, passionless kiss before she went into surgery two weeks before.

  Those tears connected us once again. I felt like those tears spoke the good-bye I was prompted but failed to give before Sophia was taken away to surgery.

  It was a long, long two weeks.

  The Call

  I had gone home to get some sleep around 3:00 a.m. because we were praying and I was exhausted. The doctor called me at 7:30 a.m., which wasn’t unusual. She called often with status updates and also to listen to me and respond to any questions I had. So I just assumed this call was like any other. When I answered, I noticed she had a sense of urgency in her voice I hadn’t heard before. She asked me to come to the hospital immediately.

  I got there as fast as I could. The lead doctor handling Sophia’s case met me on my arrival. I could tell he was visibly upset and dreaded delivering the news that there was nothing else left to do. In tears, I begged and pleaded with them to do whatever it took to keep Sophia alive. There was one last procedure to try, and they reluctantly did it. I just knew a miracle was around the corner.

  But there was no miracle from that procedure either. They put Sophia back in her room. Friends, family, and church members prayed with me until eleven that night. Throughout the afternoon, the staff checked Sophia’s vital signs and looked for brain activity. Each time, the doctor confirmed my worst fear: There were no positive signs that she was reviving. Three or four times throughout the day, the doctor gently asked me if I was ready to let her go. But how could I do that? I wanted so badly to believe that things would turn around.

  By late afternoon, Sophia had already lost color. Although she was on an artificial heart that was pumping blood through her body and keeping her alive, her other organs had already shut down. She wasn’t breathing on her own and hadn’t been for a while. It was time for me to make the decision no one wants to make for his or her spouse, especially a young married man in his twenties. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not now. Not this way.

  I finally came to the conclusion that God didn’t need me to keep Sophia alive. If Sophia was supposed to live, she would. If it was Sophia’s time to die, she would. It didn’t matter how sophisticated the medical treatment or strategy. I mournfully signed the papers to take Sophia off life support. That was the toughest decision I’ve ever had to make.

  That call — and what happened next — broke me.

  A New Truth

  I am a person of faith. I believe miracles do happen. There are plenty of documented cases to back me on this. Trust me, I did the research. I bought a book during one of Sophia’s heart episodes that had documented miracles and stories in it. We would read it together during her hospital stays to lift our spirits and strengthen our faith.

  We desperately needed encouragement during those times and tried everything we thought would make a difference. Still, sometimes, everything falls apart. When it happens to you personally, though, all the trite responses and pithy explanations are empty. Part of me wanted to believe, but I was tired of believing with nothing to show for it. I wanted a miracle for my wife, and I didn’t get one.

  I felt cheated. I felt robbed. I was angry and hurt that my precious Sophia had to suffer and die like that. I was riddled with guilt for having not gone back in the room when I felt the nudge to say good-bye when I knew she could still hear me and respond.

  Now I had to face the crowd of people whom I was supposed to lead in worship. What would I do? I had to talk to the people who had prayed with me at the hospital. What was I supposed to say? I had to face the fact that I was the only one who would be coming home to our apartment every night. How was I going to do that?

  The only thing I had the strength to do was cry.

  Twelve years had passed since I saw Sophia for the first time. Now I was about to bury her and somehow try to find the courage to move on without her by my side. I had lived almost half my life with her. Now what?

  Our four years of marriage had been rocked with the constant battle of medical complications and the unknown lurking in the shadows. We had overcome so much together, but we couldn’t overcome this. I didn’t want to let her go.

  I sang for Sophia one more time at her funeral. And then it was time to close the casket. I was pai
nfully reminded I would never see her again this side of heaven.

  I remember wishing for a miracle even as they lowered the casket into the ground. I just wanted to pull her out of that box and breathe life into her. Her life wasn’t mine to give or take, but that didn’t make it any easier to watch her disappear. I was so messed up.

  This was my darkest moment. For the first time, I couldn’t see or grab on to the hope that was in front of me. I was blind to any promise of something better. I was separated from any logic or reason that might comfort me in the midst of this devastating experience.

  But as I look back on this moment today, I realize a truth now that I didn’t then. Just because I couldn’t see it, just because I couldn’t feel it, just because I couldn’t make sense of it doesn’t provide any evidence that hope, restoration, and the promise of good things were not ahead of me.

  No one should have to go through what Sophia and I went through. I would have traded places with her in a second. I never wanted to see her suffer, and I never could have imagined she would die so young and unexpectedly. Sometimes we don’t discover our purpose until the darkest moments strip us of everything and all we are left with is brokenness and heartache. It is in these moments, ironically, when hope becomes our strength and carries us until we can see again that hope is always in front of us.

  Chapter 5

  In the Shadow of My Darkest Moments

  The power of your belief system will get you out of your darkest moments.

  The dark moments will come. The pain will consume you. The brokenness you feel inside will tempt you to believe that any remnant of hope has been torn to pieces. This is how we know we are human; this is what it means to be truly alive.